


Catch a Falling Star

by misplacedmemory



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplacedmemory/pseuds/misplacedmemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Smith is an anomaly. Strange dreams and memories plague her. When she meets the Doctor, the skein of her life slowly unravels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jane Smith

_Historical record states a child will be born in 1940 amid of the Hull bombings. What it will not show for many years is the severity of Hull’s damage after the war. Like the city the little girl will be a secret hidden in plain sight._

_Birth certificates written in this shaky period are scattered among old boxes that have not taken a breath that was not filled with the dust of flattened buildings. This little girl’s birth certificate will state the following: name, date and time of arrival._

_In 1941 she will say her first word, but this word is lost to Time’s meticulous recordkeeping._

_She will be strong, this little girl. She will grow up and live life a little too much for her age. Her mother will worry herself to a figurative death, which will lead to her father’s harsh rule over her activities. She will learn to sit quietly but by no means is this the end to her adventures. She will learn about foreign lands under the rule of her country, and she will feel guilty. She does not know why she is certain she knows the answer to her own troubled thoughts when she doesn’t. She will go to school and realize she can live a life outside the port city she calls ‘home’._

_She will become proficient in anthropology, enough to win a scholarship to study in Oxford for a doctoral degree. Her name will grace a paper detailing the cultural revolution of the first humans in the Mesopotamian region. In between these four years she will love a boy working on a doctorate in physics; they will fall out of love before he is unfortunately killed in a radioactive freak accident._

_She will move to London and forget all about Hull and academic fame. She will live in a professor’s home, taking care of a little girl who comes to see her as a shining figure in her life. She will find a teaching position in a local school and befriends two teachers suspicious of a student in their classes. Both disappear without a trace. She will make a fuss to the police; no one will investigate. In approximately three years they will find her again and explain they eloped. She won’t believe them, not deep down, but she won’t question it._

_She is a main figure for the rest of the little girl’s life. A fixed point for someone in flux, someone who will marry and have children and grandchildren. And she, too, will die when she is of old age. Surrounded by the little girl and their friends and the little girl’s own children. She will pass away on the date when the first bombs fell in her hometown, but she won’t know this._

_But historical record is easy to manipulate._

_In 1940 there was no little girl born in the middle of the Hull Blitz. There was never a girl who lived in Hull and escaped to Oxford and worked on a degree. Never was there a nanny who loved a girl for all of her life, and the little girl never had a nanny. The two teachers never met a woman who was too smart to be working at a primary school. (And who was just as odd as their mutual student.) In fact, this women will never reach proper old age._

_As historical record states, she will die when she is as old as the universe._

_Oh, she’ll exist, but not in the logical sense. There will never be a Mr. and Mrs. Smith from Hull who will birth and raise this little girl. She’ll never live in Hull; she’ll live in London. But she won’t really live in either of these places because she_ can’t _. She shouldn’t even be_ here _. She’ll remember life after the war but this is only hazy. They aren’t real memories. They aren’t_ her _memories._

 _How can someone live with memories that aren’t even_ theirs _?_

_She is a living organism that has been transplanted from one place in time to another. It is said to be impossible to do such a thing, but the Universe is a strange place._

_Oh, she’ll exist, but in a mythological sense. There is a beginning for her in the past, long before life existed in that tiny speck known as Earth. She will be birthed to parents whose names are lost to Time and the girl herself. She will live in a world dancing a dangerous waltz under the shadow of light and darkness. She will grow up, study, and become one of the masters of the Universe._

_She will encounter a Lord and he will vanish._

_In different eras of history this part never varies._

_The way she meets the Lord varies continuously, depending on the storyteller and the way the Universe sets things in motion. Sometimes she knows him, sometimes he knows her, and sometimes they know each other. The story begins differently but the story ends the same way—_

_He marries her and they’re stricken from the record as if their union—rather, their existence—is a clerical error._

_Oh, she’ll exist, but in a paradoxical sense. Throughout historical record under many names, many changes to her appearance and circumstances. Stretched throughout time and space as she runs away from the heavy weight on her shoulders._

_Historical record states a Type-40 TARDIS with damage to its navigation and Chameleon Circuit will be stolen by an unknown Time Lord and his companion._

_Historical record states a young woman with implanted memories will begin her time as a nanny a year before these events will occur._

_On November 23, 1963 two schoolteachers will become a Time Lord’s unwilling companions through time and space._

_On November 20, 1963 a young woman will wake up drenched in cold sweat after a nightmare involving a world that blazed with fire._

_On November 23, 1963 a madman will enter the young woman’s life and history will repeat itself for the last time._


	2. Nightmare Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes memories tend to bleed through dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to churn this out so I apologize for this less than reputable chapter.
> 
> Coming up- Chapter Three: Libraries, Pt. One

There’s always fire in these dreams.

It’s choking, but breathable. I can even walk through it if I wanted to. (What a funny concept, thinking.) The fire twists in the wind. Spires aspiring to reach the heavens, like the old architecture found in primitive species, dancing a slow waltz set to the sound of a steady drumbeat.

The fire engulfs my body but I don’t feel my skin burn. My hands stream through the fire’s trundles and curl them, making them wrap around my fingers snugly. The fire smacks against my slender hand and makes popping noises. My mouth twitches in anticipation. The fire is cool to the touch.

I’m not actually burning. (I’ve gone through this part a million times. Each night, every time I touch the cool fire, I know that I’m not burning to a crisp. At this point in these dreams I ache to touch each individual blade of fire. I can’t, and I know I can’t, but knowing this doesn’t keep me from wanting to.) I start to walk out of the plains where I have been for three hours (two minutes, if you’re using Earth dream time) and head for the gleaming sphere in the east.

It’s always intact from where I am, but as I walk closer I can see it’s shattered. There’s a miniaturized city engulfed by what remains of the sphere. A story to the sarcastic tune of a cranky Victorian lullaby echoes throughout the land.

_Once upon a time this sphere encased a metropolis that reached the heavens. (By no means were the inhabitants primitive. They were, however, pragmatic and dull, which is a common characteristic in primitive cultures.)_

The sphere, when it was intact, was approximately a quarter of the metropolis’ height. Now it is ten times bigger, ten times taller than the highest tower in the metropolis. The top of the sphere—the part that remained intact after so many bombings—is disintegrating.

Things here, I muse distractedly (and since when do I muse?), fingers touching the tips of the blades of fire, are smaller on the inside.

I begin to reach the point where the plains turn into rocky, dusty terrain. The ground is firmer now. There is reality now. The dirt beneath me is sturdy, not soft. The plains are soft and soggy.

I reach the bottom of the broken sphere. A soft, cold breeze chills the area. From deep within the metropolis I hear distant cheers. There is the faint smell of smoldering organic material overpowering the once usual smell of recirculated air.

The only sound comes from the patter of my slippers. I’m always wearing slippers whenever I visit this planet. When I lift the skirt of my dress—long, picking up everything everywhere I go—my eyes readjust to focus on the embroidered intricate pattern. It is similar to pitifully drawn geometrical shapes. What does it say? I squint, smile forming on my lips, but I doesn’t know why. I can feel the gears of my mind whir, gaining speed as shapes are recognized and roughly translated. I’m rusty in theory—I’ve had no experience for what feels like eons—but as the last shape is translated, sides rearranging to form a language that won’t be invented for a long time, but is already invented and reinventing itself still, something inevitably distracts me, and the trance is broken.

It’s the sound of a voice. As I look up I will notice that in 0.2 seconds I will have to take two steps to the left in order to avoid a shard of glass from high above the sky. I follow my body’s orders, because I have to (and because not doing so would have been a waste); I watch as the heated glass drills deep into the paved ground. It stops when it barely scratches the upper crust of the planet, a scratch comparable to the width of a fingernail.

The voice repeats. Over and over again until it goes past and flies back only to miss me again. _What horrible aim_ , I comment, grim smile printed on my face, and the voice stops. I am now holding what appears to be a clear cube. It glows and buzzes as my fingers glaze over the edges gently. It is amusing. A choking laugh erupts from inside of my chest as I tenderly press one of the smooth faces against my cheek.

_—get away. You must get away. You must get away. You must get away. You must get away. You must—_

The laugh is now a chortle, and is cut short by the sound of another voice.

“Why are you here?”

I do not move from my place. The dream ends as I laugh incessantly, and I wake with an odd feeling in my stomach. This, however, this is entirely new. What shall I do now? It’s a valid question for I don’t know what will happen. I turn, the long train of fabric whispering in a foreign language, to look at who or what is speaking.

It's a man. Of all things possible, it's a man.

The man’s face blanches. I smile playfully. There is a slight twinge of sadness buried beneath me, but I do not know how to alleviate it. The care free smile, and attitude that came with it, loses its intensity as a result.

“You need to leave.”

The voice that accompanies the face is warm. Soft in its composition, melodic with its low timbre. It burrows in my ears to make its new home inside of me. The words bounce against the flesh walls, creating a faint buzz that warms my entire body.

“You can’t be here.”

_Can’t I?_

The face contorts.

“It is impossible for telepathy that is not managed by the War Office,” he speaks, shaking on every syllable, “to pass through to another, let alone bypass the frequency.”

My only response is to stare at him like he’s an old item from the past. He is, strangely, a relic from the past.

“Besides, you can’t be here. Your kind left—”

_My kind?_

“You’re a fairytale.”

Suddenly within the deepest pits of my body a laugh erupts. He is stricken with fear as my body sways lazily as the laugh reverberates throughout my body. The sadness within me stirs once more. I’m sorry I ever laughed. I’m sorry _for_ him. He is so frightened. The smile plastered on my face morphs to a sorrowful look.

_What time is this?_

His lips begin to form a sentence but hesitate.

 _Far beyond your time._ He’s humouring me now. Or playing along.

_Time is irrelevant._

He clears his throat. Despite this new sequence of events I’m aware of what will happen. In 5 seconds he will tell me the truth. In 10 seconds there will be a fight on the other side of this planet. In an hour’s time the fight will enter the metropolis. Many will resurrect from the dead, many who wish for death. There is a whole span of days where the sphere will disintegrate completely and the earth will take over what was once theirs.

What happens afterwards, well, I can’t see.

The warm blush caressing my skin fades away completely. My body aches.

_There is a war._

Why do I ache so?

_We are losing._

The sadness grows exponentially like bacteria grown with loving care.

_There are horrors, horrors that should never have been used._

It’s eating me. It buries its teeth into the tissue of shoulders and bleeds me dry.

_We are losing, and no one wants to lose._

Once upon a time—

_Do you hear me?_

—And the world obliterates—

_Answer me!_

—And it always happens because—

_You cannot let your children do this—_

_I cannot._

He stops screaming and I finally see the flash of light. Explosions create copious amounts of energy in the form of heat. Space is a vacuum that traps everything but heat. I cannot feel the heat. I can only feel the unbearable freeze of the vast emptiness which surrounds me. I hear everything—the screams, the cries, the _fire_. The fire has come to life and burns me from the inside out but I am still intact.

_Because you must._

His face falls.

_It is always this._

He shakes his head.

_You can never change this because this will always happen._

There are tears in his eyes.

_Because we set it up like this._

They are large, his eyes are large. Full of fear and anger. Misshaped spheres of tears roll down his hardened face and rejuvenate him. It’s started, I know, but he does not.

_And I am sorry, but you know this is fixed forever._

As he reaches into his long coat, already tattered and singed from so many millennia of fighting and dying, I lose my grasp on reality. The broken sphere is lost, and the metropolis diminishes in intensity. The ground beneath me is no longer hard nor soft—it ceases to exist. The fire engulfs the dress but steers away from my skin. The fire is sentient. That is how I created it. All things are sentient, and all things are dead on arrival. His face loses definitive shape.

I don’t know what is more painful. Losing the faint buzzing that has now fallen silent, or the sharp intake of breathe that burns my lungs, signaling the end of my escalating dreams.


	3. Fragments

_November 20, 1963, 8:00 am_

“Ms. Smith!”

Mornings are a terrible burden.

“Ms. Smith!”

If this were Saturday, I would have been left alone until noon.

“Ms. Smith!”

If this were Saturday, I’d still have to wake up early, but it’s nice to hope once in a while.

The door to the upstairs room I occupy opens with a ruckus and a cry. Instinctively I sit upright to see the damage. The door has been slammed against the rickety wardrobe, but both wardrobe and door are well.

There is, however, the matter of a small girl swinging from the doorknob.

“Penny,” I sigh, voice racked with fatigue over last night’s dream.

The small girl laughs. Children always manage to laugh when situations are dire. If Penny cared to inspect my face, she’d notice the worried gaze set in my eyes. The dreams were getting stranger, hitting too close for comfort. Had I something strange to eat at dinner last night? Did Mrs. Lyndsay use mushrooms in the soup? She knows better than to do that, the old bat.

Thump thump thump!

 _Penny’s legs_ , I think, _Hitting the door. I knew those Mary Janes were going to give me a headache._

“Shall we go to the park today,” the little girl giggles.

I snag the cloth dressing robe from the upper right hand bed post. My head is no longer aching; it’s throbbing. Every time I dream about that fiery planet they get worse. When I grab my forehead and catch a glimpse of the wide-eyed child staring back at me, it’s hard _not_ to smile.

Adults can never help themselves whenever they’re near children.

“Yes,” I say, the throbbing persistent but something I can handle, “We shall go to the park.”

Especially those who are still children at heart.

*~*

_Penny Fellowes entered my life in the simplest way imaginable: she was my professor’s colleague’s daughter._

_I had no intention of becoming a nanny. I was a doctoral student, my last year in University, when Professor Charles propositioned the position._

_“You’ve got to have experience with children sometime,” he wheezed, cigar smoke curling upwards and settling on top of his bald head._

*~*

_November 20, 1963, 9:00 am_

Penny fidgets in her seat before her father comes down from his study to breakfast with us. I’m not supposed to encourage this habit, but I let her. Even I fidget waiting for the old man to come down.

Penny is served her breakfast first. A bowl of porridge, a cup of chilled milk, and a teaspoon of Cod Liver Oil afterwards. Penny tries to stall this last item for as long as she’s able to.

I’m given my breakfast when Professor Fellowes sits down. His meal is still being prepared. He takes a glance at the morning edition—a few accidents, the Queen is planning an event, etc etc. I stir my eggs in a quiet manner. Penny eats her porridge in dainty bites like I taught her a week ago. She’s gotten better at it. I flash her a wink across the table to show my pride in her.

“What do you make of those hoodlums, Ms. Smith?”

Professor Fellowes has a nasty habit of asking questions at the table when your mouth is full. I choke down my batch of eggs lest I upset him for not answering at the appropriate time.

“What hoodlums are you referring to, sir?”

“Those hoodlums from the North. The odious singers, The Bottles, The Pedals, The—”

I clear my throat (not for emphasis, mind, but to get rid of a spot of egg whites stuck to the lining of my esophagus), “The Beatles?”

He snorts, “Yes, those odious youths.”

Hardly youths, the lead singer is the same age as I!

“Well?”

Again I choke down my eggs to answer him. He asks of my opinion.

“Just a band, sir, who’ve made themselves a hit in our country. Good morale for the youths, you know.”

Luckily for me, Professor Fellowes knows nothing of sarcasm.

“Well,” he sighs, cutting into his plate of sausage, eggs, and toast, “I’m glad you don’t partake in that lower class drabble, Ms. Smith.”

*~*

_July, 1963, Late afternoon_

“Girl!”

My book closes with a sharp snap.

“Girl!”

My soft growl breaks the silence of the room. _Merlin has to wait another millennia_ , I huff in silence, my footsteps heavy with loathing as I climb down the stairs.

“Girl, I have been calling you for _ages_ ,” the shrill voice snits when I cross the threshold.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ma’am me, _girl_. What good is that to me now? The fire has gone out and Mr. Fellowes has told you repeatedly I have weak lungs!”

I walk over to the fireplace with a lazy calmness in my step. This infuriates her; I can tell from Penny’s gloomy stare as she looks at me. She’s quiet when Mrs. Fellowes is in residence, I’ve noticed. The fire is no longer strong, just embers remain in the soot. I shift a partly charred log with the iron cast poker; a small voice from inside the fire pops and crackles. There’s a flame, a tiny flame struggling to gain power to heat up the frigid Georgian home.

When the maid comes in with tea Mrs. Fellowes takes the opportunity to mention good help is rare now. When she was younger, she sneers, servants knew their place.

“Aye, ma’am,” I reply dryly, coaxing a fire out of ashes and soot, “but Mr. Fellowes insists I am not a servant.”

That doesn’t bode well. Penny ducks her head down to concentrate of her encyclopedia of animals.

“And governesses _definitely_ knew when to show respect.”

 _Aye, ma’am, but I’m not a governess,_ I say to myself, _I’m a nanny._

“I don’t know why Thomas brings in urchins,” she spits out snidely. The spoon stirring her tea never knocks against the sides. She makes a note of complaining of my ‘incompetence’ of proper stirring. “The lower class are trying more and more to reach our level of class, Mrs. McGill. In my mother’s day they used to keep them in check! Oh, but that was before the war, and once the bombings began everyone just happened to need the monarchy’s help!”

When the fire rises sufficiently to warm the Ice Queen’s feet or whatever is afflicting her I slip out of the room. An oil painting of some horrid gentleman is staring back at me. For someone who brags about their taste in art, Mrs. Fellowes managed to downplay her skill. Mrs. McGill, the maid, tells me the house was Mrs. Fellowes wedding gift from her great-aunt. Had she bothered to keep to most 1950s décor she could have managed to make this entire house comfortable, Mrs. McGill tut-tuts to me every time she gets a chance.

*~*

_A day or two after, July 1963…_

“Why must you be so difficult with mummy?”

I don’t reply to her. She repeats the question.

“I try not to be, Penny,” I explain as kindly as I can. “I will try harder so as to not upset you.”

Penny’s face doesn’t change from its neutral expression. “Mummy was upset with you when you didn’t come fast enough.”

I nod. Mrs. Fellowes was watching us from the window, watching us sit under the sun. She dislikes the sun, says it ruins one’s complexion. She charges me with the task of keeping Penny under an umbrella. Penny is shaded well enough, and she makes sure not to cross the boundary. I suppose even she knows not to defy the rules.

“She wants Daddy to replace you,” she says suddenly, looking at me sadly.

I nod. It’s all I can do without adding more fuel to the fire.

*~*

_March, 1959_

Years ago when the rubble of a time before I could remember stood as a reminder of something we’d all forgotten, there was a game. Don’t trust the shadows. Walk into the shadows and perhaps you were lucky to come out alive. The older kids scared us of scary Germans lurking in the heap of twisted molten metal; adults warned us of falling victim in closed space where we’d never come out.

Peter used to say Northerners were the strangest bunch he’d ever met. Daft, mad, and possibly more Gaelic than English.

“You just weren’t there,” I used to sigh, wiping down the slick tabletops of his workspace. “Could you blame them for what they saw?”

“I saw London burn from my Aunt’s house in Surrey, and I didn’t disrespect myself by believing in fairy tales,” he would retort angrily. He’d lost his mother to the fires. “You were still in your cot when the Blitz happened. How could you even begin to remember?”

*~*

_November 20, 1963, 3:16 pm_

Mr. Fellowes is haphazardly organizing the luncheon in his study when Penny and I arrive back from our afternoon in the park. Penny skips to the kitchen to find Mrs. McGill. She’s going to recount her observations of the local color, which she knows makes Mrs. McGill happy; Mrs. McGill is always eager to hear any gossip about anything.

My beret sways, its arc shortening as I walk into the study. Mr. Fellowes rambles on the implications of allowing today’s young girls to concerts of shaggy haired youths. My eyes run over the sheets of paper scribbled with menu ideas. Mrs. Fellowes was once in charge of these decisions, Mrs. McGill chattered one lazy Sunday in the parlor, the one that came when Mrs. Fellowes had left for her Indian sabbatical.

“Would you allow Penny to listen to those awful bands?”

The sudden question takes me back momentarily. A small smirk appears on my lips, lingering as a recent memory of Penny humming along to a recent single by The Beatles. “No, sir,” I murmur, “Not at all.”

“Have I invited too many people, or is enough for you to handle, Ms. Smith?”

When I hand the sheets back to Mr. Fellowes there are fresh indentations running along its length. I catch a glimpse of the garden. My head pulsates in Morse code. Beeping in a round the same message of dread.

“I’m flattered you think of me as a hostess, sir,” I voice softly. My voice tries to emulate the crispness of a creaseless hospital sheet, but it quivers at the ends of my sentence.

Mr. Fellowes smiles pityingly. My tongue bitten back by manners. He assures me there is no need to shy away from the responsibility. Everyone has constantly asked for me ever since the last time I was to host a dinner party.

“I’ve not invited Dr. Smith, if that is what you are concerned, Ms. Smith,” he reassures me. “And I have apologized about that…unfortunate spectacle enough times for you to bury the hatchet. As they say.”

“Yes, of course,” I reply. “No, please, I understand your intentions—”

“Four years is quite enough of a mourning period for someone who was not your fiancé.”

 _Three years, it’s been three, although it feels like ages._ “Yes, I understand.”

“I am duty bound, Ms. Smith, from Professor Charles. I know he was a mentor, a surrogate father, to you. And I am taking care of you for him.”

I direct my gaze towards the branching oak tree whose leaves are shimmering in the sunlight. My folded hands, strategically behind my back, furiously wring the ends of my sweater sleeves.

“Perhaps you will find some of the associate professors that I have invited appealing to you, Ms. Smith. I have the utmost confidence in these bright young men.”

The men in question were acquaintances I had met through Peter.

“You nearing an age where you should be considering a home of your own. These young men will be eager to have a woman educated enough to challenge them intellectually. Women that are eager to cater to themselves and their home, Ms. Smith. Qualities and ideals you embody so clearly.”

Peter used to chide most of them for lacking any social niceties.

“Do I have your word, Ms. Smith, to host this dinner party, or shall I have to ask for a hostess?”

“But of course, Mr. Fellowes.” He smiles that fatherly smile he puts on when I list Penny’s progress. I make up an excuse, something about responding to a few correspondences from former teachers and family, hoping this will soothe his itching need to drill the next successive steps to get me to womanhood. When he shoos me away my legs nimbly climb the stairs to the second door of the left on the second floor, and promptly stomps towards the four post bed.

*~*

_June, 1960, 11:48 am_

_“You are almost impossible,” Peter murmurs._

_“Quiet.”_

_His breath rattles. Everything about his body rattles. His soul is trying to escape, he knows it. He feels it. His face crumples before he can continue his broadcast to the living. For a quick second I wonder if he’s realizing his fate. I duck my face when he breathes in again. “Are you scared?”_

_“If I’m nearly impossible, you are completely a handful,” I counter, keeping the inevitable at bay._

_“_ Almost. _There’s a difference. Never underestimate the difference.”_

*~*

_November 23, 1963, 7:30 pm_

“I’m so very sorry about Peter.”

Another condolence. This time from a professor that knew Peter personally. He was there at the funeral, patting Peter’s mother’s hand at the wake. Smile and nod, smile and nod. Penny is by my side through it all. The reminiscing of Peter’s brilliance, his lost future in the advancement of physics, the funeral.

“He was a shining star in this mad, mad world of our field,” the professor heaves. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your presence at these parties.”

“I was indisposed, sir. Trouble with an aunt.” This is the story I tell to those who are not aware of the odious Dr. Smith.

“Oh dear, I hope she is well.”

“In better health,” I reply, before taking my leave with Penny’s skirt tugging to ask for another helping of the turkey she’s taken a liking to.

As I sneak Penny back into the dining room Mr. Fellowes entreats me to meet a young man; I can hear nothing of his qualifications over the loud chatter. Academia was surprisingly boisterous for something so dull. Penny whines out of hunger. Mr. Fellowes is not a man you keep waiting, not like a common salesman. I promise Penny extra helpings if she stays put for five minutes.

Halfway spinning to head in Mr. Fellowes’ direction I feel the warm and wet embrace of scotch soaking through my dress’ heavy fabric. I swing into the arms of a flailing teenager who exclaims his surprise in a language that can only be understood by a toddler.

“Ah, Ms. Smith,” Professor Fellowes chuckles, eyeing the scene appreciatively. “I see you’ve met the new French tutor!”

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> The current tags are people/relationships I definitely know will be in the story later on. I have to have them. They're too set in my mind to get rid of them.
> 
> I've re-edited Chapters One and Two. Third person was something I could not do. Neither can I work with first person, but I like the fact I can control some factors.


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